The Poems of Madam Albithurst: Agitated Conflict

I must take the opportunity to applaud Lady Quixtactictle’s taste in servants, as not a one behaved anything less than perfectly properly. Indeed, it is difficult to answer the door when it has been blown off its hinges, but the tall butler managed, with her firm back and graceful limbs, to provide some measure of propriety to the sudden and violent assault on our host’s mansion.

The assailants, unfortunately, were not nearly as respectful of her efforts as we were. Smoke and light poured into the dining hall, the sound of metal and gunpowder filled my ears. There was a great shouting of many different voices, and it was only after I gripped Mr. Porist about the middle that I managed to shake him from his shocked stupor and drag him underneath the table.

Muted by the thick wood and table-cloth, the sound became slightly more bearable. Turning to our hostess, who had wisely chosen to avail herself of our current hiding place, I asked her as politely as I could manage, given the circumstances, if she had invited anyone else to dinner.

She had not, and her normally unflappable self was quite irritated at the fact. “Madam Albithurst,” she said, “I must sincerely apologize for this, but I fear I must be unconscionably rude. I did not expect any further company, and I find myself ill-equipped to host both you and your friend as well as these newcomers.”

“Of course,” I responded in friendly commiseration, “I quite understand how such things can, as it were, ’throw a spanner into the works.'”

Smiling at my rustic turn of phrase, Lady Quixtactictle produced from deep in her dress a metal device of strange and ominous design. Pulling the lever on the side, a faint hum cut through the raucous chaos outside the tablecloth. “You are far too kind,” she said. “If you would be so kind as to make your way out through the kitchens, I think you may find your egress easier to manage. My servants will show you the way. And do keep your head down, if you please? I would feel quite embarrassed if you should become hurt. On my mark.”

With a twist of her lithe form, she slid out from under the table and swept herself upright. Even over the sudden crash of lighting and thunder, Mr. Porist and I could hear her shout, and took her cue to excuse ourselves from the table in the other direction.

I imagine you will feel a great sense of relief if I pause here, to delay my description of the uncouth and frankly brutish events that occurred thereafter. I am well aware of the sensibilities of the time, and do not wish to cause any undue discomfort.

So, to give you time to prepare for a description of unmitigated violence, I will now take the time to describe the tablecloth.

When I was young, my first excursion into the Velvet was not on a Golden Howdah, but on a Reigel Ferry, bound for Gleep. It was a marvelous experience, one which I chronicled extensively for the intention of turning into a novel at some later date. Foolish youth, that I considered my ramblings worthy of record!

The journey was long and slow, and we were given to long alternate periods of silence and discourse, a tide of shared experienced as we struggled to find the correct balance between companionship and respect.

There were seven of us in total. The Ferrylord and her two children, of course, who drove the ferry towards our destination, and four others: A retired merchant who had made her fortune among explorative ventures — a concept she attempted to explain many times without success; A journalist of Old Kichaki Kingdom, who thought to find some ancient story or rare quote to display in their local Museum; a thick shouldered Euili miner who sought new work in distant un-settled lands, and of course myself.

From such different lands we were, and such different worlds within those lands — I daresay Euili miners are of a higher station in life than even our Counts and Countesses — that conversation was a constant struggle.

I was still young, of course, so my inability to properly understand my fellow travelers was perhaps explicable, if not excusable. The Kichaki journalist, however, had it easiest of us all, so used to observation of others was he, that he noted the little physical displays that the others missed. He became our translator, and as such learned more about us than the rest of us put together knew about anything.

Thankfully, young as I was, I knew that I knew nothing, and so I spent much of my time trying to learn the strange observational ways of my fellow traveler. He was quite welcoming to my interrogations, and a good quarter of my time on the ferry was spent learning how to observe other people.

This lovely journalist of mine always carried with him a thin notebook of white paper and a thick black cover. I rarely saw him write with the same utensil; sometimes a pen, other times a quill or pencil, once even a lump of charcoal; but always he wrote in the same notebook.

The white of the paper put me in mind not of the pure white of snow or the blank white of cotton, but a rich and vibrant white, the kind one might see on a white-washed fence or stained child’s toy. Whorls of shade and an unsteady hand, an odd inversion of dark coffee made lighter with cream. Marbled stone that bends with the flick of a finger, thick blanketing clouds with the cracks of a dark gray sky behind it.

It is layers. It is levels. It is a fresh start after the thousands of eons that now lay behind it.

When the journalist wrote, he wrote in the Kichaki cansbu, what we might call an alphabet. Even at a young age, I was able to discern the more aesthetic qualities of the art, and while staring intently at his writing, I could not call each letter of the cansbu anything but the most basic and simplistic of artifacts.

But as a whole, when viewing a page full of Kichaki words, placed at odd angles, intertwining and mingling like lovers on the paper, a marvelous picture emerged. From simple scratches, single lines, and subtle curves, a tapestry of beauty. Vines hanging down from curling trees. Water falling like sheets. Patterns bursting free from the chaos like mists pulling away from the advancing dancers.

When I was traveling across the Scarlet Savannah of Sa’bar’eht, and met the Calabash Cat, I slept on the skin of a Shorthorn Sheep my Quonai guide had slain years ago. The harsh curling hairs pricked my skin every night, so close and stiff that they felt less like the dried wool of a living thing, and more like the cast off shavings of an old man whittling away at a block of wood. Yet somehow, so stiff and rough were these shavings that all together — the sharpness, the wood, the curving arc of dried fiber — the pain faded to a soft numbness. A thousand screaming needles on the skin fading away into a dull roar of gentle cushioning. Like a thousand voices become a roaring sea, or a million specks of harsh black and blinding white become a gentle and comforting gray.

Lastly, I once found myself — for any number of varied and particularly uninteresting reasons — on the outskirts of the Blackbark Forest, during the time of Insurrection. Of course, as you can no doubt tell, I survived, no worse for wear, so please feel no sense of concern for my person. However, as I was running from the advancing Cleaners, I spotted that which I had come to meet: a single Yasmar, blooming in a clutch of heather. Tearing myself away from the throng, I threw myself into the dirt, almost tripping up three strong couriers, which would have meant disaster for us all, but I was of a single mind at the moment, and thrust my nose into the middle of the Yasmar bloom. There is, of course, no describing in so short a space the fragrance of the rare specimen, but I am certain you are familiar with flowers as a whole, to say nothing of the smell of smoke, flavored with blood and terror.

The tablecloth was this white. The tablecloth was this beautiful. The tablecloth was this soft. The tablecloth smelled of smoke and flowers.

Perhaps it was the sudden arrival of these violent brutes which reminded me of the speed at which things change. Had I suddenly found myself at their mercy, and received none for whatever reasoning they might have, would my poems have been enough? Would my desire to communicate the sensations of life across the Myriad Worlds have been of any great significance?

But such questions are not the hereandnow, and so I was able to note, once that we were free from the muting influence of the tablecloth, that there was more shouting than before, and it was coming not from the now open front door, but from the other side of the opposing wall. Crackling flames and electricity tainted the air, as more shouting joined the other two sources. Only seconds passed before an explosion accented the joining of a fourth set of shouting, and then a fifth.

Now, while I am certainly a lady of no small standing, I must say that I put no particular weight behind my titles. They are amusements at best, and I do not consider them limits on my personal activities. For example, I find myself quite enamored with architecture of interesting or unusual design. Though visual arts of all types tend to be limited in their layers, I find a careful study of the structure and design of any building I enter to be quite advantageous in situations such as this; when I find myself needing to move with alacrity from one place to another.

As such, I was able to drag Mr. Porist along after me by his collar as we moved from the dining hall towards the servants’ door. I only caught a glimpse of the disorder as we ran, billowing clouds of white gas and spinning hornets cutting through the air. A tall man with lashing tail and brass cap was gripping the arms of a lithe soldier in black leather as they struggled to control the short blade between them. A muzzled beast swung a thick mace that sparked and flashed with every swing, while a robed figure with goggles and tight mask ducked and weaved, struggling to get a bead with a long rifle. One of Lady Quixtactictle’s servants had managed to pin down another metal-helmeted soldier with withering cross-fire, while two more lifted what looked like a cannon onto their shoulders.

While I am an avid speaker of many languages, I am afraid that I could only hear snatches and snippets of the shouting, and so could only barely glean the meanest understanding of what was happening. In fact, were it not for the solider who met us at the door to the kitchens, we might have remained completely ignorant.

He was shorter than me, but taller than Mr. Porist. His metal breastplate gleamed, though dents reflected the flickering gas-lights at odd angles. He gasped and took off his helmet upon seeing me, and produced a black pistol.

“M’lady,” the soldier said. “Pardon the intrusion, but we of the Argos Legion are searching for an item of great importance. Our intelligence places it inside this mansion. I must insist that you tell me at once where it is.”

Now I have never been particularly antagonistic towards the militaries and soldiers of the Myriad Worlds, but I have also never found myself exactly well-disposed to being interrogated while threatened with a weapon of any kind. Coupled with my unfortunate predispositions, I am afraid I assumed more than I should have. “I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about. I know Lady Quixtactictle, she is an old friend, and I am certain there is not a single part of the Encinidine here. Your intelligence is obviously wrong.”

“The Gallowglasses are never wrong,” the soldier said, before blinking in confusion, “and we’re not looking for the Encinidine…Is it missing?”

No sooner had he asked then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fainted dead away. I only had a moment of considering the poor soldier’s constitution, if even the suggestion of the Duke’s passing was enough to affect him so — but then the thin Aeolam stepped from the shadows, iron pan still vibrating in their hand.

“If you will follow me, Madam, I will escort you and your friend out of this unfortunate situation.”

“Thank you,” I said before realizing the significance of the thin white uniform our escort wore. “You wouldn’t happen to have been the chef of the meal I was so unfortunately distracted from, would you?”

“I am indeed Lady Quixtactictle’s head chef, madam,” the Aeolam said, pulling me aside as a bullet nearly tore the cloth of my sleeve. “Which must mean that you were my Lady’s guest this evening?”

“Indeed I was,” I smiled at his recognition. “I hope you do not consider my presence an ill-omen from now on. Indeed, while I admit I suspected these rapscallions were chasing a similar goal as my own, I now believe they are after something altogether different. The soldier you incapacitated, for instance, suggested that they were searching for an object of great importance that Lady Quixtactictle had hidden away somewhere in this mansion.”

With a sudden jolt, the Aeolam reached out their hand towards me, palm up.

As I said, I find my titles to be insignificant in the greater scheme of things, but because of their influence on my younger life, I found myself behaving instinctualy to various stimuli. To whit: I realized this obviously well-bred Aeolam had forgotten — understandably, given the unfortunate circumstances — to greet me properly. Therefore, I immediately placed my hand in theirs to kiss.

Sure enough, they brought my hand up, but they did not kiss it until a goodly time had passed. Instead, they simply stared at it, observing it, as if deciding which was the proper place to put their thin lips.

For my own self, I was immediately self-conscious, for the hand I had given them was the very same hand with the ring Lady Quixtactictle had given me, and I was acutely aware that its size and color did not suit me as I would have liked. Obviously, the chef was stunned by its garishness.

I tried to pull my hand away, but the Aeolam held it fast. “Charmed, madam,” they said with a kiss. “Please, come this way.”

We had only made a few steps before our escort had to dispatch another soldier, this time one of the muzzled beasts with sputtering maces.

“How convenient,” Mr. Porist said, in a misguided effort to perform some measure of polite conversation, “that you appear to be assaulted by multiple factions, each seemingly as eager to overcome the other.”

“An odd boon, but yes,” the chef nodded slowly, “we are well situated to resist such a chaotic onslaught, though we might have kept more of the mansion otherwise. I worry that my Lady may become over-enthused, as when that happens the cleaning staff tends to have far more to clean up than is warranted.”

A sound like boiling water echoed from above our heads, and a series of screams, pops, and explosions followed after. The chef shook their head. “Just so.”

“May I ask,” I began, mindful of the situational issues of etiquette, “is this a common occurrence with the Lady of the house? Only I never heard tell of a single fracas in her mansion, much less four or five at once.”

“Of course not,” the Aeolam snorted as they tore a small decorative plate off the wall and hurtled it into the skull of a nearby rifleman. “This is hardly a fracas, my Lady. Merely an altercation. A scuffle at most.”

“All the same,” Mr. Porist said, “I’m quite certain there is something the matter. this hardly seems suitable for a regular occurrence.”

“I’m sure I would never be so bold as to comment on my Mistress’s hobbies,” the Aeolam sniffed. We continued our escape in silence through the servant’s quarters, and finally to the rear entrance. With a sharp swing, the chef took out two solders who were waiting on either side of the door, and bowed most gentlemanly-like before stepping aside. “After you, madam.”

“Might I ask,” I said as I stepped through the doorway, “have you always been a chef?”

“It is a rather recent occupational shift, I admit, madam. I hope my modest efforts did not offend. Ah,” the chef shaded their eyes with the bottom of their pan. “I see the cavalry has just arrived. If you will excuse me, madam, I think it is rather important that I am not seen here at this moment.”

I turned to give my thanks, but the chef was already on their way, bounding over fallen rubble into the smoke.

Sure enough, the Anointed Bulwark was swarming towards the mansion, as lances of green and needles of red flashed through the air. A booming voice echoed through the air: “This is an illegal and unwarranted assault on a civilian of the Grand Junction. As Field-Captain of the Anointed Bulwark, I order all of you to stand down or face the violent consequences!”

“Ah,” Mr. Porist sighed with relief, “safe at last. Shall we go and give them our gratitude?”

“While that would certainly be the polite thing to do,” I said with restrained speed so as to give my mind more time to consider, “they are likely going to have their hands busy with handling these hooligans. I wouldn’t want to put any more on their plates, and dealing with us might be more trouble than its worth. I think we should —”

And here I stopped, for I had turned to point towards the Docks, with the intent of directing my companion to a more efficacious destination than the hands of the Anointed Bulwark.

But I was not pointing towards the Docks, for while I had picked the correct direction, an obstacle had found its way between my finger and the teaming port of the Grand Junction. It was with an astonishing mix of delight and regret that I saw my dear Captain Sir Venriki de’Laisey, standing like a tree with arms folded and familiar sour mue on his lips.

“Madam Albithurst,” he said with a voice of exhausted resignation, “How did I know you would be here?”